Love and Soul
by The Pale Bride
Summary: With the power and Soul of a city tied into his being, there is very little the Composer is incapable of doing. Repairing a Player's broken heart is practically child's play... but understanding his own? That's not so easy. :: Joshua/Neku


**Warnings:** Violence, blood, and dark themes. Endgame spoilers.

**Love and Soul**

"Three. Two. One."

_Bang_.

To be Composer is to be no stranger to death in all its forms, but Neku, as ever, is full of surprises. Though he knows he faces death he does not scream or sob or beg, and though there are tears in his eyes he bites his lip and holds his tongue. He gives a tiny gasp as the bullet hits home - whimpers in that too-long moment when the pain's set in but he hasn't yet lost consciousness - and then his eyes close and the deed is done.

The Game is over. Neku has won, though he does not know it. And though they have always been on the same side (even if they have not been working towards the same goals), Joshua, as he stares at the broken, bleeding body of his proxy, feels as though he has lost.

As Composer, he knows full well that this is only temporary, but as a person, as someone who has come to care very much about Neku's wellbeing, he knows no end of guilt. It was his mind that thought up this Game. It was his hand that fired the gun whose bullets twice pierced Neku's heart, first to bring him here and now to put an end to his stay. It is he who has spilled Neku's blood (bright as paint, but far less pleasing to the eye, or to the heart) across the Room of Reckoning.

_Neku deserves better_, his mind whispers, and he cannot pacify himself by swearing that it was for Shibuya's good.

Another whimper breaks the room's silence - a softer, higher voice than Neku's, and a sound driven by distress rather than pain. Neku's friends are still awake and aware, though frozen where they stand; they had no choice but to watch their once-partner's murder. (No wonder Shiki is upset.) With a careless wave of his hand Joshua removes their bindings and quiets their minds, putting them to peaceful, dreamless sleep. Once he's done with Neku he can erase the past few minutes from their memories.

There's nothing to be gained from letting them suffer. Shiki and Beat are innocents in this battle even if they are not strangers to the fight, and Joshua is not so heartless as to ignore that. Besides, erasing memories is practically child's play.

Healing a heart, on the other hand (when the injury is his fault, _his fault_, and Neku did nothing to deserve it)... that won't be so easy.

It wasn't his responsibility the first time. All he had to do was drop a Player Pin on Neku's corpse and leave the healing to Megumi, for the Composer is too important to waste his time with every mangled Player who passes through the Reapers' Game, and that made it far too easy to ignore the damage he had dealt. (Or maybe he simply hadn't cared. Three weeks ago, Neku had simply been a pawn in a Game beyond his comprehension. Now, he is Joshua's former proxy, his former partner, his... friend?)

Now, though, there is no Conductor to delegate tasks to - and even if Megumi had not just been Erased, only the Composer can return life to the dead. Only Joshua can tie up the loose ends his Game has left, no matter how reluctant (how emotional, how _weak_) he is.

He'll do what must be done, for to do anything else would be an insult to one of the finest Players Shibuya has ever seen.

Setting aside his gun and shrugging into his true form only takes a moment, and as power flares bright around him Shibuya wraps him in her presence, smoothes herself into the empty spaces, and whispers a welcome in his ear. For the first time in three weeks he feels at home and in control (it's about _time_ for the Underground and the Reapers' Game to be back in his hands), and while it's a feeling that doesn't last for long, it's comforting while it does. With the power and Soul of his city tied so tightly into his own, there is very little that he is physically incapable of doing.

Mentally... well, that's quite another story.

The blood boils away into nothing as Joshua's feet touch it, unable to withstand contact with the sheer _power_ he has at his control, and it takes a conscious effort to dampen that power enough not to destroy Neku at the first touch. Mortal bodies deprived of Soul are fragile things indeed, and burning his proxy's to ash would be no way to end things between them. Slowly, his energy begins to tighten and redirect inward, and when he kneels beside Neku's body his own gives off no more than a faint glow and comfortable warmth. Wings sprout from his back - the image of wings, at least, vague shapes of blue-white energy that cast flickering sparks of light on the walls.

Joshua closes his eyes and steadies himself, pushing aside the uncertainties (he can't _afford_ to be uncertain, not now, not with Neku), and once he thinks he might, maybe, be calm, he opens them again and gathers Neku's body into his arms.

Mortals are fragile. He _knows_ this, but that knowledge doesn't keep him from noticing in painful detail just how frail Neku seems. He doesn't weigh enough to be a burden, or to pad out his bones; Joshua can't believe that he never noticed before how skinny Neku is, and it's all the more obvious now that hand fits easily around the teenager's wrist. One move in the wrong direction and he could _snap_ that wrist like a dry twig, but the mere thought of it revolts him.

Were Neku still breathing the first priority would be the gaping wound in his chest, and things are not much different now that he is not; in bringing back life, just as in saving it, the worst injuries are the first targets. Joshua slips a hand under Neku's shirt and spreads it out over the boy's heart, and he can _hear _the wound like sour notes in a piece of music.

A person is like a song. Each cell is a note, each system an instrument, a Soul the vocals; in the truly dead the music is soft and somber, but never-ending. Closing his eyes once more, he focuses on the wrong notes and coaxes them back into place, rewriting the composition that is Neku until it plays right and true once more.

Before certain sections can be recomposed the bullet must be dealt with, burned away with painstaking care so as not to singe the fragile muscle of the heart it's buried in. It's _just there_, in that place where the music rests for a heartbeat or two. Once he can picture it clearly, he reaches out to it with tendrils of power and crushes it with light, then pulls the ashes out of Neku's chest; it only takes a moment, and the music flows freely once he's done. (Too bad that was the easy part.)

A human heart is a fascinatingly complex thing, a deep bass drum whose steady beat keeps everything else on track. So essential is it to life that listening to its absence feels innately wrong - yet at the same time it fascinates Joshua, who pauses for a moment just to listen. His entire existence revolves around the no longer living, but usually no Player worthy of the Composer's attention is so far dead as to lack a pulse. (Before Neku, the last such Player was _himself_, and he was not so in-tune with life's music, then, or in any state to marvel.) Without a strong beat to hold it together the song seems chaotic and unfocused, and much too faint - a mere whisper in the back of Joshua's mind.

But he can still hear it, and that means it can be repaired. Letting out a sigh that rings too loud in the quiet, he collects his drifting thoughts and refocuses on the boy in his lap - the heart that isn't beating under his spread fingers.

His wings spread wider and flash with light as he draws on more of his power, writing anew notes that were destroyed by the bullet. It's delicate work, made worse by the knowledge that a single mistake might leave Neku crippled or worse with a newly-gained heart defect, and if he's honest with himself he doesn't truly have the energy to spare for it just now. If he were in any mood to be reasonable he would call out to the Angel he knows is lurking in the shadows (but there is _nothing _reasonable about this, and letting his Producer help him is simply not an option).

Finally, after too many minutes hunched over a lifeless body, he weaves the last chord into place, and a last burst of energy kick-starts the steady drum beat of a pulse. Magical energy as well as blood begins to run through Neku's veins once more, though Joshua keeps his hand pressed to Neku's heart, writing it simple scales of blood to make up for what the bullet spilled. A single flute starts to play as Neku's lungs remember how to work. All that's missing is a Soul.

After a long moment's pause to catch his own breath, Joshua opens his eyes and reaches out to the empty space around him, willing Neku's Soul - the concentrated, beautiful essence of what Neku _is_ - to collect and pool in his cupped hands.

It glows fire-bright, a rich yellow-orange that stands out against his own pale blue, and he breathes out over it to still the rippling turmoil of anger and pain. He doesn't put enough of himself into it to change Neku's thoughts; just enough to calm them, infuse them with some order that will help him sort out the events of the last few weeks. It's the very least he can do.

Then he tips his hands and watches Soul spill, syrup-thick and gleaming, onto the body in his lap. Neku takes a deep breath and stirs, restless, as true life hits him, then settles down into sleep as Joshua gently presses on his mind to keep his eyes closed. No need to have him wake drenched in his own blood, hair and clothes and headphones all coated with it.

Fixing that, luckily, is a far easier task than fixing what spilled it. All it takes is a little heat, carefully directed to burn away blood and grime but not the skin and cloth and hair beneath it; in only a few minutes Neku looks tidier than he likely has since he arrived in the UG, and Joshua is no longer kneeling on anything but clean stone floor. He lets out a sigh, very, very glad that his main concerns are over and done with. This was far too much to burden himself with after Megumi's last desperate stand, and after how hectic and exhausting the past month has been.

Faintly, he hears footsteps behind him - a familiar voice speaking his name. He ignores it.

Neku seems so peaceful, now, certainly more so than Joshua has ever seen him. If he dreams, it is of happy things, for there's the slightest of smiles on his lips and he's curled up in Joshua's lap so blissfully content. (Thank the Angels for small miracles.) His headphones have been knocked askew from all the excitement, and without thinking Joshua moves to straighten them, settling them right on Neku's ears again and combing out the boy's hair with his fingers while he's at it. If his fingers linger, marveling in the softness and the texture so much sleeker than his own, who is there to call him on it?

(Aside from that nagging voice behind him, calling his name again.)

The row of pins at Neku's collar can't be left with him; some things have no place in the Realground, and Joshua carefully unfastens them and sets them aside. He leaves the Player Pin for last, toying with the idea of leaving it with Neku as a parting gift, before talking some sense into his head and unpinning it as well. Now he is truly no longer a Player, and there is truly no reason for him to remain here any longer... but Joshua's arms curl protectively around his waist without input from his brain, and, stubbornly, they stay there. Neku's weight, slight as it is, is oddly comforting to hold; when he tilts his head and snuggles against Joshua's chest, lured by the warmth, that's more comforting still.

"Silly Neku," Joshua whispers, but there's laughter in his voice, and on a whim he leans down to press a chaste kiss to Neku's forehead. "Brave Neku," he breathes against his skin, and he means it. It takes a great deal of courage to look death in the face and still have strength to fight it, and Neku has gone through much, much more than any normal Player. Yet he's still strong, and still brave, and his mind is still in one piece. He'll do the RG a great deal of good, and maybe one day when it's really his time to die... maybe he'll come back.

Maybe.

Or maybe once Joshua lets him go he'll leave Shibuya and never come back, and the thought only makes him want to hold him tighter.

"_Yoshiya_."

It's only the strangeness of hearing his real name that makes Joshua react to it, half-turning towards the sound. Sanae is standing maybe two feet away, and despite the sternness of his voice there's understanding and warmth written all over his face. "Yoshiya," he repeats, now that he's gotten Joshua's attention, "Josh, c'mon. The UG ain't no place for the living. You know that."

He knows, but _thinking_ about it makes his chest ache in a way he doesn't understand - and all he knows about _that_ is that holding Neku closer soothes the ache away. "He's been here three weeks," he points out, looking away from his Producer and back towards the sleeping boy in his arms. "A few more minutes won't hurt him."

"It might."

And Joshua knows the truth in that, too. Living Souls aren't meant to up- or downtune; they belong in one place and one place only, and the Underground is not that place. His fierce, incomprehensible want to hold Neku close and _never let go_ is overruled by his wish to keep him safe from further harm, and he reluctantly sets Neku on the ground in front of him so he can get to his feet. (And oh how it _hurts_ to see him squirm in his sleep, uncomfortable on the cold hard floor and so obviously missing the warmth of being held.)

A thought folds his wings against his back; a moment's concentration shifts his form, so that when he lifts the sleep from Neku's mind the last thing he sees will be the scrawny, teenage Joshua that he remembers. A gesture like a wave goodbye starts Neku on the journey back to the Realground - his home. Where he belongs, no matter how much Joshua wishes it were otherwise.

"You'll see him again," Sanae reassures him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Phones has Shibuya in his Soul, J. He won't go wanderin' too far."

Somehow, despite the tightness in his chest and the lump in his throat, Joshua manages to find it in him to laugh. "I suppose so," he agrees. Shibuya _is_ Neku's home, and it helps, a little, to be reminded of that. Not as much as he would like, maybe, but a little.

It doesn't take much to set everything else right. A minute or two is enough to ease the worst of the worryhatepain from Shiki and Beat's minds, and returning them to their lives (and poor little Rhyme to her true body) is simpler still. Once all is done he curls up in the throne he hasn't touched in thirty long days, but ruling is the last thing on his mind. He'll need a new Conductor soon, of course (and of _course_ all the obvious choices have made themselves no longer available!), and there will be the usual bickering to deal with as the chain of command recovers from the shake-up... but none of that really strikes his interest just yet.

It's hard to think about the Reapers when he's so distracted by the knot in his chest.

"He was just a Player," he complains aloud, to himself and to Sanae - whoever's more interested in listening. "But I..."

Sanae's familiar laugh soothes his aches, just a little. At least some things are still the same as ever. "Some folk never change," he muses, coming to sit on the arm of the throne and ruffle Joshua's hair. "You'll figure it out, boss. Give yourself time."

Well.

That doesn't sound like such a bad idea, Joshua thinks, as he yawns and stretches and settles back into the throne and Shibuya's embrace. After all, if there's one thing he has in abundance, it's time.


End file.
